by Ash, Ingrid
My heart nearly stops. How the hell did he get my phone number, and even worse, how does he know here I am?
I soon realize there's more. Below the message is a series of photos. They look similar to the paparazzi photos taken of me and Mr. Cartwright, except it's him and Veronica. Walking arm and arm, down the street and without a care in the world.
Now I know my heart is working, because it hurts.
I look at that picture for way too long before trying to find some way to delete it or block him from ever messaging me again, but I can't. Then I read his text message again and start to freak out. Shit. I start to panic as I flip through my phone and open up that bank app. Waiting for it to load is even more nerve wrecking.
$198,032
A long sigh of relief escapes my lips. But, it's dwindling. Just like I knew it would.
It's time to get out.
But there's something important I have to do first.
*
The Statewall Women's Shelter is some place I swore I'd never return to. Even standing outside it right now is difficult, intimidating even, despite the fact that I know I have a home of my own to go back to. There's already a line forming—I remember waiting at the end of that line day in and day out. Despite the violent flashbacks it causes, I soften when I see those women there, just waiting for a bed, and I know it's all worth it.
I march through the big double doors, getting looks from more than one woman as they assume I'm bypassing the line. The lady at the front desk barely looks up at me as I whisk past her and straight to the treasury department. And as I do, my mind flashbacks yet again to my time staying here. I remember the much older white lady who used to show up at the end of the month, every month, on the dot. She was impeccably dressed and always had giant sunglasses on that covered her face. She would arrive and leave in the same black sedan every time. For so long I wondered who she was so I hid out in the hall one day when she came to visit. I overheard her conversation and, as it turned out, she made monthly donations to keep the shelter afloat. I never found out how much, but I always had a hunch it was a lofty amount—she was obviously loaded. The fact that people like her existed was bizarre to me at the time; I always wondered what it was like to be her.
After a few years she stopped coming and I never saw her again.
Walking down the hall with a check in my purse is a rush. I rap lightly at the slightly cracked door and wait for someone to respond.
“Come in, please,” says a soft voice on the other side.
I ease the door open to find a woman bent over a desk, writing something furiously, amidst what seems to be an organized mess of files and papers. She looks up at me over her glasses with a kind smile. She looks to be in her mid 40s, with skin the same shade as mine and caring eyes.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Hi, yes, I'd like to make a donation,” I say. “Is this the right place.”
Her eyes light up in a way that makes me think she doesn’t hear those words too often. “Yes, of course, it's much appreciated.”
I smile back at her, and reach into my purse, pushing aside the one-way plane ticket and grabbing the folded up check instead. I hand it to her, automatically feeling a pang of guilt as I do so. I could have given back even more. And one day, I plan to.
“Thank you, any little bit hel—” her voice trails off and her eyes widen as she looks down at the amount and then back up at me again. “Are you sure this number is right?” she asks.
“I'm positive.” I flash her a tight smile. “I hope it helps.”
She crashes back against her chair, seemingly speechless and eying the check like she doesn't believe it. Surely she sees larger donations on a regular basis? “I... of course it will. If only we had more angels like you.”
Her words warm my heart.
“For something like this we need to make you a plaque or dedicate a wing to you or something!” she says.
What? “No, please don't.”
“It's a tradition.”
“I'd really rather not. It's just extra money that could go towards the shelter. And I'd like to keep the donation anonymous.”
She sighs and shakes her head. “Alright, if that's your wish.”
“It is. Thank you,” I say. My eyes drop to the floor and I acknowledge her with a nod before slipping out of the door.
“Ms. Pierce, one more thing,” I hear her say.
I turn back towards her. “Yes?”
Her brows lower as she stares at the check. “I don't like to question our donors motives but...by chance do you, or did you, have a relative here?”
I shake my head. “No, this place helped me when I needed it.”
Now she looks like she wants to cry. “God bless you. And congratulations on your good fortune.”
“Thank you,” I say, closing the door behind me as I leave.
Leaving that place for the final time is like a weight off my shoulders. I've come full circle, I've closed a loop. That chapter of my life is over and I'll never go back, I swear it. Unless there's a check in my hand, of course.
I head down the street, passing the line of women that's grown even longer by now. At the end of the line there's an older woman who's hunched over in a wheelchair—she looks familiar and her eyes are locked on me.
“Well look at you,” she says as I attempt to pass by. “You're just a pretty as your mother, you know?”
I stare at her incredulously, trying to place her face. How would she know my mother and I? It's been over a decade since I lived with her.
“Thank you,” I reply. I reach into my purse and pull out a few dollars and hand them too her.
She waves her had at it dismissively. “Oh no, sweetheart, that's your hard earned money. I'll be taken care of just fine in here,” she says, nodding at the building.
My heart feels heavy, just thinking about someone her age struggling to get by and having to live out their last days in a place like this.
“How about I get you a room for the night. Or a hot meal?” I ask her.
She grins. “I don't need anything fancy, dear. You see, you're sweet just like your mother too.”
I realize that she probably has dementia or something, which only makes the situation even more sad. “Are you sure you're alright there?” I ask her once again.
“Well why wouldn't I be? I'll have a warm bed and a roof over my head. I've been through plenty worse.”
“Alright,” I say, resigned. I pause for a moment thinking about her words earlier. “Why do you think you know my mother?” I ask.
“I do know your mother! She used to come in to my old nursing home. And then she stopped. Last I heard she was at Stepping Stones.”
Stepping Stones? That doesn't make sense at all. For one thing, it was a rehab center and I don't believe for a second that anyone could ever convince my mother to go one of those. And if she did, there's no way she could afford any place as ritzy as Stepping Stones.
“You know, you should visit her sometime. I'm sure she'd love to see you,” she adds.
Well that's worth a laugh, although I can't bring myself to do so. “Of course, I will,” I say, lying to her for her own benefit. “Have a nice night.”
“You too, dear.”
*
I look down at my watch and up at the building in the distance several times. I know I have plenty of time before my plane leaves, but I try to come up with an excuse—any excuse—not to go inside. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I have to know if the old lady was right. Had she really found my mother? Do I even want to see my mother again after everything she did to me? I'm sure this is a wild goose chase, but even thinking about it makes me apprehensive.
There's a long cobblestone walkway that cuts through a well-manicured lawn, leading up to the front door of Stepping Stones. It looks more like a house than a rehab center—albeit a very large house. It's serene and peaceful, warm and inviting; I can understand why addicts and their families would pay
the high price tag to come here.
After a moment of hesitation I follow the path and step inside the building. The interior is just as nice and calming as the outside, although it looks less like a home, what with the front desk and all.
“Hello. May I help you?” a young woman sitting behind the desks asks as I approach.
“Yes, um,” I stumble all over my words and then pause, lacing my fingers nervously together on the marble counter. A little voice in my head reminds me that it's not too late to turn and walk away. I don't have to do this. I could be opening up a can of worms that I just don't need right now. But ultimately my curiosity won't be satiated until I know for sure. “Is...there a Michelle Pierce here?” I ask.
The woman in front of me blinks awkwardly, picking up on the apprehension in my voice. Hell, even I can sense it.
“Are you a relative?” she asks.
Yes? No? Sort of? That's a complicated question. If she is here, the last thing I want is for her to know I came looking.
“You could say that,” I reply, which only makes the woman look at me even more oddly.
“We can't allow any type of visitation unless you're a relative.”
“So she is here?”
The woman sighs and shifts in her seat. “This information is usually confidential. However, Michelle is technically no longer a patient here.”
Wait, so that means she was at one time? “Can you tell me where she is. I'm... I'm her daughter. Tamara Pierce,” I admit, and her entire expression changes.
“Oh, it's nice to finally meet you, Tamara. Michelle mentioned you all the time.”
“Really?” I asked, feeling particularly shocked, considering the fact that I haven't seen her in over a decade.
The woman nods her head. “Of course she did.”
I'm not exactly sure how to process that. “Well do you happen to know where she is now?”
“She's still here. I should have been more clear—some who finish the program successfully and exhibit good behavior are given room and board along with a job, to help them get back on their feet.”
“Oh, well that's good.”
“It is. Your mother is one of those people, you should be proud of her.”
“I am,” I reply, although it's slightly a lie.
“Would you like to see her? I think her shift is ending, I can call her up here,” the woman says as she reaches for the phone. My hand darts out to stop her.
“No, no, that's alright. I just wanted to... make sure she was safe.”
Her brows furrow and she looks confused. “Oh, alright then. I believe she's right down the hall if you change your mind.”
I nod, “Thank you, but I don't think that will be necessary. Please don't tell her I was here.”
“Alright. If that's what you wish,” she says.
I let out a deep breath as I begin to move slowly away from the desk. My arms are wrapped protectively around my body, a million different thoughts and conflicting emotions running through my head.
And then I stop. “Just one more question,” I say before turning back towards her.
“Sure,” the woman says.
“This program is, well, pretty expensive,” I say, my eyes darting around the room.
“Our program is worth every penny, I can assure you.”
“I don't doubt that,” I say, stepping back towards her. “I just... there's no way my mother could afford it.”
“I'm not sure what you're asking?”
“I'm asking who paid for her treatment.”
The woman clams up and says, “I'm not at liberty to disclose that.”
“Because I know it wasn't her,” I press. “Was it a man?”
“Like I said, I'm not at liberty to disclose anything remotely like that. Even Michelle does not know who her benefactor is.”
Well, at least that confirms that there is a benefactor. Who else could it be besides Mr. Cartwright?
“Now, if you'd like to see her, I believe she's in the library at the moment. I know she would love to see you.”
I shift uncomfortably in place as I mull it over. I went back and forth between wanting to talk to her again and not on my way here. What was the point in coming all this way if I didn't see her, especially since I didn't get any concrete answers?
“Alright,” I resign.
“Just make a right and head down the hall. The library is on the left; you cant miss it.”
I follow her directions and head down the hall. My stomach twists in knots and my hands get more and more jittery with each step I take. I feel even more apprehensive as I approach the library and place my hand on the knob.
This was a bad idea.
I should turn back.
But I've come too far to turn back now.
I let go of the knob and peep in through the large windows instead. Even the library is fancy—it looks like something that would be in Veronica or Mr. Cartwright's home, with nice flooring, dark wood shelves and plush sofas. It even has a row of touchscreen computers. What it doesn't have is a lot of people, only a couple scattered throughout. One lady sits at a desk, one at the shelves, and another man who appears to be a patient taking a seat with a book.
Maybe she isn't here after all? I wait and watch for a minute, until I finally see someone pushing a cart full of books out from behind the shelves. I freeze when I see her. She comes closer and closer without looking up. She looks just like me, but an older version of me. She finally looks up at the window and our eyes meet. There's no denying that she's my mother.
I turn and make a mad dash down the hall and out of the building. I suppose I should feel silly for running, but I don't. I thought I was ready to face her, to speak to her again, and possibly even give her a piece of my mind, but that was hell of a lot easier in my head than it is in real life.
“Tamara,” I hear a woman's voice call out after me.
I'm halfway down the path and her voice is enough to make me halt in my tracks. Hearing my mother speak again rattles my bones. I had forgotten what she sounded like after all these years, and honestly, I didn't want to remember. But hearing her say my name, like she used to when I was young brings back a flood of memories. And they're not all bad memories. I still remember a time when I was very young, before her addiction, when she cared for me like a mother should.
But I don't dare turn around. Instead I shake my head, my curls whipping my face. “I don't know who Tamara is. She isn't me,” I lie.
“Oh baby, I know it's you,” she says, “I would know you anywhere.”
I can't do this. Especially not right now. Why was I so stupid to come and search for her? I cup my hand over my face and continue down the pathway.
“I was gonna come find you some day,” she calls out to me.
“Then why didn't you?!” I shout as I spin around towards her, all of my anger and resentment spouting out in a few words. She looks sad and regretful, but not surprised by my reaction.
“I was hoping you wouldn't see me like this. I wanted you to see me back on my feet, normal, holding a real job and not just cleaning up after rich folk. But it's okay.”
I bite my lip hard, refusing to cry. She comes closer and I get a good look at her. She should only be in her early 40's but the hard life she's lived shows on her face and hands. She's very thin, her hair is short and soft, made up of natural coils, and tiny lines pull at her kind eyes. Despite her physical change, she has the same demeanor of the mother I remember from before addiction ravaged her mind.
“I know you hate me and you have every right in the world to. I don't ever expect you to forgive me for the things I did to you.” Her voice begins to break as she speaks. “But baby, I need you to know that I love you. That will never stop. That will never change.”
With those words, the floodgates break. Those familiar hot tears spill over my cheeks again.
My mother steps towards me. “Sweetheart,” she says as she reaches for me, but I flinch away. She looks disappointed, hu
rt even. I wish I could hug her back and tell her that I still love her too, but I can't.
“I have to go,” I mumble as I turn away from her.
“I understand,” she says, her soft voice cracking. “Are you well?” she asks and I stop. “Are you well and taken care of? Are you happy?”
I wrap my arms protectively around myself, knowing that the answer to that is far too complicated to explain. I wish I could rest my head on her shoulder and ask her for advice. I wish we had the kind of relationship other girls have with their moms. Maybe one day we will.
“Yes, I am,” I tell her.
I turn back to look at her, and see her exhale, looking slightly comforted. But I know her mother's intuition tells her there's more to it than that.
“I'm leaving the country tonight. I don't know when I'll be back.”
“Oh,” she says, her eyes dropping to the ground before her. And then I see a faint smile crack upon her lips. “I'm glad you're living.”
“Me too,” I say with a nod, brushing a tear away from my cheek. “Goodbye, Mom.”
“Goodbye, baby,” she says to me as I continue down the walkway and into the streets. Out of the corner of my eye I see her, standing there, watching me until I'm too far away to see her. I can't bring myself to hate her anymore.
CHAPTER 20
I pull out my cellphone to check the time as the cab makes it's way around the circular driveway. My plane leaves in a few hours. I know I'm cutting it close but I can't leave with any loose ends. And if I can face my mother again, I can face anything and any one.
I walk up to Mr. Cartwright's front door and promptly ring the doorbell. When no one answers I ring it again, and again shortly after that, realizing how impatient and obnoxious I'm being. “Come on out, Mr. Cartwright,” I say to no one other than myself.
“Just a minute, I'm coming, I'm coming,” I hear the hurried voice from the other side. I already know it's Ronald before he opens up the door. When he finally does, I can tell he's shocked to see me, and I'm happy to see him.
“Ronald,” I say with a big smile.
